


Jim's Story

by Lemon Drop (quercus)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-02-03
Updated: 2000-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:43:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quercus/pseuds/Lemon%20Drop





	Jim's Story

Blair's voice, as always, cut like a hot knife through butter, right to me. "Way."

"No way."

"Way, man."

"No fucking way."

I pulled up next to where he stood on the sidewalk, juggling his backpack, a can of pop, and an umbrella. A guy about his own age stood nearby, arguing with him.

"See, he's here."

The guy looked at me critically. "You a cop?"

I rolled my eyes at Blair, who said, "Show him your badge, Jim."

"Yeah, show me your badge, Jim."

"Hop in, Sandburg," I said, leaning across the seat to open the door.

"See, *told* you he wasn't a cop."

"Is too."

"Is not."

"Oh for god's sake. Here," I pulled out my wallet and shield, "look. I am a cop, okay? Now pay up."

The guy's face pulled downward as if gravity had kicked into high gear. "Man. I can buy those at Toys R Us."

"Listen, you little prick," I started, but Sandburg put his hand on my arm. "Jesus."

"See ya, Matty."

"See ya, Blair." They waved at each other as I drove away.

"What the fuck was that about?"

"Matty didn't believe I was working with a cop."

"Yeah, I figured that, but why not? Why's he care?"

Blair stared at the windshield as if trying to figure out how to answer my question. Finally he said, "I guess when you get to know me better, you'll understand."

* * *

I heard him long before I reached the classroom; he was refereeing a discussion among several students on the reasons for the relative hairlessness of humans. One woman was speculating that early hominids had returned to the sea, like whales and dolphins; two men were laughing at her while Sandburg tried to get them to articulate their objections. I stuck my head in the door; it was a big classroom that seated about fifty. Many of the seats were filled, although some students were standing and almost all were laughing, including Sandburg.

"Hey, hey!" he was shouting cheerfully, "Now remember what Stephen Jay Gould said: 'The beauty of nature lies in detail; the message, in generality.' Let's think about the details you're citing." He gestured to the laughing men, who, after glancing at each other, began to explain what was wrong with the woman's suggestion.

I watched them for another fifteen minutes, until Sandburg called time and sent them on their way with reading and writing assignments. "And no excuses!" he shouted after them over his shoulder as he wiped the chalkboard.

"Hey, man," he greeted me when I'd worked my way down the steps to the front of the room.

"They were pretty hot there."

"Yeah, it was great, wasn't it? I love that energy, that high-octane, full-throttle power when it gets going."

"You're a good teacher."

He looked up at me, clearly surprised. "Thanks." He continued to stare at me.

"Hey, I went to school. You have to have a bachelor's degree to sit for the detective's exam. But I never had any teachers like you." He was blushing.

"Thanks," he said again, and turned back to the blackboard.

"Wanna grab a bite before we head out?"

"Sure. You ever eaten on campus?"

"Not recently."

"The pub isn't bad. Deli sandwiches, soup, pizza, beer, stuff like that."

"Sounds like a plan."

He dusted his hands and started gathering up his notes, stuffing them into the omnipresent backpack. "It's just up the hill a bit."

"So why are humans so hairless? Present company excluded," I asked as we headed out.

* * *

I pulled up into my usual parking spot in front of the loft, turned the key, and reached for my jacket on the seat beside me, when I saw Sandburg kissing some girl in front of Colette's. Really kissing her. I could see his mouth working, trying to eat her up. His heart rate was skyrocketing, and I could smell his arousal all the way across the street. She wasn't nearly as excited or interested from what I could tell. Finally, she stepped back and, in a devastating gesture, wiped her mouth. He followed her, trying to stay close, but she shook her head, touched his hand lightly, and then got into her little Geo.

Blair watched her drive away, just stood there on the street, shoulders slumped in defeat. His heart was still pounding but he had a different smell. Disappointment, I think. I gave him a minute to compose himself; when he didn't go upstairs, finally climbed out of the truck and headed over toward him.

"Hey, Sandburg. What's for dinner?"

He jerked as if I'd startled him. "Oh, Jim, hey. Gee, I haven't had a minute to think. How 'bout that famous French dish, left-oh-vairs?"

"Sounds good. We got some leftover Chinese food, don't we? Maybe make some rice?"

"Yeah, there's mu shu pork, but no pancakes, and some broccoli beef for sure."

"Well, that and a beer and I'm set."

"Cool."

* * *

"What the hell is that?" I shouted over the music.

"Oh, oh, just a minute." The music softened to a bearable level; really, it wasn't bad, just too loud.

"You should really like this. It's Celtic, a group called Tannis singing 'The Old Hags Set' in the Gaelic."

Hanging up my coat and heading to the kitchen for something to drink, I said, "Why should I like that?"

"Ellison's a good Irish name. That's your heritage, man."

"Well, if it's my heritage, why are you listening to it?" He rolled his eyes and took a sip from a mug. "Don't you call me a philistine."

He looked puzzled. "Why would I call you a philistine?" Then understanding dawned. "Your ex."

"Yeah. The ex. If I didn't like something she thought I should . . ."

He nodded. "Gotcha. Don't worry, man, I'd never call you a philistine. Technically, a philistine is an inhabitant of ancient Philistia, in Palestine; metaphorically, it's someone guided by material impulses. You don't fit either definition."

I had to smile at him. "Thanks, Sandburg."

"You knew my erudition had to be good for something."

* * *

"Goddammit, Sandburg, how many times do I have to tell you that you. Are. Not. A. Cop!"

I could hear Simon, even without my sensitive hearing, from two floors away. Hurrying, I burst into his office before he could tear the hair off my new partner's head.

"Hey, hey, just cool it," Sandburg was saying. I rolled my eyes; as if anyone lived who said "cool it" to Simon.

"No, you cool it." Simon stood up to his full and imposing height, staring down at Sandburg with the weight of his captaincy. "Do you want to continue riding along with Ellison?"

"Yes, I do -- "

"Do you understand that I have the authority to pull your ride-along status?"

"Yes, Simon, I do -- "

"Then do you understand that if you ever, and I mean *ever* pull something like this again, I'll yank it so fast you won't know what happened?"

Sandburg sighed heavily. For some reason, he had no fear of Simon. Even I was afraid of Simon. Sandburg studied Simon for almost a full minute, assessing the situation, how serious he was, whatever. Who knew. Finally, he said, "Yes, Captain, I understand. I hear and I obey." With that, he turned and walked out of Simon's office and to my desk, where he sat down. He glanced once in my direction and then started opening his backpack.

Behind me, Simon sighed deeply. "Jesus, how do you put up with him?"

I turned and, to my surprise, found my boss looking tired and worried. "Really, Simon, he's a good kid, a hard worker, and he's fucking brilliant. Why do you come down so hard on him?"

"Because he's a good kid, a hard worker, and brilliant, but he doesn't have the necessary training. He's going to run headlong into a situation he can't control and get himself killed."

"I'm out there with him," I pointed out mildly, although I was offended.

"Don't you start. I know that. But I also know you have to have your mind on your work and not on your partner's safety. You need someone who can take care of himself, not the Energizer bunny."

"That isn't fair. He can take care of himself." I found myself defending Sandburg, even though I'd said the same things to him myself. Loudly.

Simon just waved at me dismissively. "Yeah, yeah. Get him in some self-defense classes, Jim, and for god's sake, get him on the firing range."

"He says he won't."

Simon glared at me, and I made a tactical retreat. Sandburg looked up at me expectantly as I approached my desk. "Come on," I said softly, and he stuffed his notes back in that backpack and followed me out.

Once in the elevator, I said, "Listen, Blair. I. It's important that you not get yourself in trouble here."

"I can handle Banks."

"Bullshit you can handle Banks! Don't even think about handling him! Just fucking do what he says, okay?"

Sandburg studied me with the same level gaze he had aimed at Simon. Finally he nodded. "I can see this is important to you. I promise I'll always think first, and I'll always keep in mind the liability I am to the department. But I can't promise not to follow you in. That's my job." I started to interrupt but he said again, a little louder, "That's my job. Isn't it?"

Reluctantly, I nodded.

The elevator doors opened and he started out into the parking garage. "Good. Glad we cleared that up."

I sighed as heavily as Simon had and followed him out.

* * *

I watched him as he worked at his laptop, smudged glasses at the end of his upturned nose, hair loosely pulled back, a cold cup of peppermint tea at his elbow. If I narrowed my eyes a bit, I could see in his glasses the reflection of the words he was typing, reversed. A revision of an old test for a section of intro to anthro. I laughed at myself; intro to anthro. Sounded as though I knew what I was talking about.

I'd never taken an anthropology class when I was in college. I'd focused on the general education requirements and on sociology and psychology classes, but mostly on the criminal justice administration courses in my major. Rainier had a good crim jus program; I still saw some of my teachers in court occasionally. Anthropology had seemed -- I don't know. Too abstract. Too distant. About long ago people in far away places. Certainly not about *me*.

I wasn't sure how I felt about being the object of someone's study. Initially, of course, I'd hated it and resented needing Sandburg's assistance. Still bugged the hell out of me, that I needed help, but Sandburg had grown on me. I like him. I do. We're an odd couple, I know. I hear what they say about us at work. Little head and big head, that's the worst. Some people think we're a couple. Gay. That never much bothered me; sometimes it'd come in handy, that I looked That Way, when I was in Vice. Less so in Major Crimes, though.

I think having him at my side in an investigation is more help than hindrance. He's quick, quicker than anyone I've ever met, and he has great rapport with people. I see him when I've insulted or upset someone, how he shrugs and smiles so charmingly at them, in apology for my behavior. He lets me get away with a lot of shit. A lot.

I've come to rely on him as a sounding board for my ideas, to help brainstorm tough cases, and even -- Caro would love this -- for emotional support. He's just there. At my side and a step behind, ready to lend a hand, contribute a thought, add a word. To catch me if I fall.

To catch me if I fall. He would, too. He's not that little, five seven or eight, and plenty sturdy. We've wrestled around a little on the basketball court and he can hold his own. I could brute force him, but he can outmaneuver me. We make a good team.

I should tell him, I suppose. Carolyn hated that about me, that it was so difficult to tell her how I felt, what I wanted. Not that he's Caro; not at all. He's a guy, like me, with a lot of the same bad habits. He's just. I don't know.

* * *

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

"How long do you suppose we'll be here?"

"Shit, Sandburg, do I look like Kreskin?"

"Who's Kreskin?"

"Oh, for god's sake, you're not that much younger than I am. Kreskin the, the Magnificent or something, you know, the magician. Fortune teller."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

I stared at him. He stood against the opposite wall of the elevator, arms folded, hair flying as if we were moving, looking as cross as two sticks. "Blair," I said calmly. "It isn't my fault we're stuck in the elevator. It isn't a terrorist attack this time. Everything will be all right."

He stared back at me; he clearly thought I was an idiot. Finally, he sighed deeply and picked up the emergency phone. "Hello? Hello? Yeah, we are. There's two of us. We're *cops*, man, so get us out. What's the ETA?" He hung up the phone. "They don't know."

"How long?"

"They don't know how long."

I nodded, and leaned my head against the shiny aluminum wall behind me. I could see my distorted reflection, just to the right of Sandburg. He was sweating.

"You're nervous."

"Fuck, yes, Doctor Freud; would you care to guess why?"

"Blair, come *on*. Don't yell at me."

He bit his lip and nodded. "Sorry. Sorry."

I crossed to his side and leaned against his wall, nudging him with my elbow. "Chill, man."

"'Kay." We stood there for a while, then he dropped his backpack and sat next to it. I hitched up my jeans and knelt next to him, then sat, my back against the wall and my knees up. He sat cross-legged, as if he were meditating.

"Got anything to eat?" He looked at me incredulously, which had been my intention though I'd never admit it.

"We're stuck in an elevator, hanging in a cubicle suspended in midair by a thin cable, and you want to eat?"

I smiled at him encouragingly. "In your backpack? An apple? Granola bar? Juice?" He started to laugh and began digging through the pack.

"Water, gum, breath mints, condoms, oops, kleenex, hair gel, lip gloss, dental tape . . . "

"Lip gloss?"

"Yeah, want some?"

"Uh, Sandburg, guys don't usually carry lip gloss. Not even when I was married did I ever carry lip gloss."

"Yeah, big tough macho heterosexual cop. An old girlfriend turned me on to this stuff; it's really great for your lips when it's cold out. It's got menthol in it. You sure you don't want to try it?" He handed me the plastic white tube. I twisted off the top and smelled it carefully. Not bad. I dabbed a little on my mouth and suddenly realized that Blair had put it on his mouth, too. I hastily handed it back to him.

"Yeah, thanks. Food?"

He kept pulling stuff out: books, notebooks, loose papers wadded up. "Ah ha!" He handed me half a Cadbury's fruit-and-nut bar, its gold wrapper folded back on itself. "Knock yourself out there. Just plan to replace the goods."

I nodded and took a bit. Jesus. It'd been years since I'd eaten one. I handed it back to him and he broke off a big piece before returning the chocolate bar to me. "Thank you," I said through the candy. The nuts were getting in my teeth, but it was worth it. Besides, Sandburg had dental tape.

It occurred to me that I really liked Sandburg. I liked borrowing his lip gloss and eating his candy bar and waiting in the elevator with him. He was entertaining; he was entertaining me.

"How was school?"

"Okay, he said, wriggling back against the wall; we were kind of leaning against each other as well now. "Office hours were a waste; the only time students show up is just before a test or a paper. That class in ecological anthropology I'm taking is really interesting, though. I haven't had economics in ten years, but the teacher's really good at explaining things." I nodded and let his words wash over me, watching his mobile face as he described the class and his teacher.

He was still telling me when the elevator jolted to a start and began slowly rising to the next floor, where we were met by maintenance men. He'd grabbed my arm at the first motion; I patted his hand where it covered my forearm. He blushed, but didn't let go until the doors were opened. "Come on," he instructed me, swinging the pack over his shoulder and stepping out. I followed obediently and we walked to the seventh floor.

* * *

I reached the scene maybe forty minutes after I got the call; I'd been all the way across town getting my truck's brakes checked. Rafe was primary, interviewing some witnesses, getting the preliminaries. Henri stood near him, looking shocked. I strode to them. H nudged Rafe, who excused himself to the young woman he'd been talking to, and both men headed my way.

"Jim, listen," Rafe started, but I said stopped him.

"Why do you think it's Blair?"

Silently, H handed me a billfold, holding it by the corner with a handkerchief. Careless of any trace evidence, I grabbed and unfolded it.

First thing that fluttered out was a picture. Of me. Sitting on the balcony of the loft, laughing at the camera. I remembered when Blair took that. We'd come home from a fishing trip and he had a couple pictures left in the camera. He'd wasted them on me so he could have pics of the campsite and the fish we'd caught developed.

Rafe picked up the photograph and held it out to me. My heart was pounding so hard even a non-Sentinel had to hear it. I looked again in the wallet and saw Sandburg's driver's license; his picture was from some years ago and he had much shorter hair. His voluptuous lips were parted in some unheard comment to the DMV clerk. Then his student ID, layers of stickers on it. A coffee club card from Johnny Java. A Safeway card. The ATM card I'd given him for emergencies. A picture of Naomi when her hair was longer than Blair's was now.

Finally, I took the picture Rafe still held out to me. I couldn't look Rafe or H, just stared at it. At me. Laughing up at my friend while I held a beer in my hand. I was a little sunburnt. My hair needed cutting, and I had the beginnings of a beard.

He kept it. Kept it in his wallet. Kept it next to the picture of his mom.

I didn't know what to do with this information. I didn't know where to look or what to say. I felt Henri pat me on the back, heard Rafe say, "Sorry, man. So fucking sorry."

After a while, Simon came up to me. He gently took the wallet from me, but left the picture. He put his arm around my shoulder. Usually, I'm the biggest person in a crowd, but Simon's bigger yet. It felt odd and oddly comforting to stand so near him, to smell him and his cigar smoke and the coffee he'd left on his desk to come here. He tugged at me and led me toward the still smoldering car. The firemen and EMTs had extracted a body. A white sheet covered it where it lay on the wet asphalt, not far from the car.

"I want you to take a look, Jim. He's badly burnt, but I think you'll be able to tell if it's him."

Of course it would be him. It was his car. His wallet. His body. Why should I look? Why should my last memory of my friend be of his burnt and damaged body? I looked blankly at Simon; he wavered and blurred, and I realized I was crying. He swallowed, and then turned me toward the body and nodded at the coroner kneeling next to the poor thing.

But even before she'd pulled down the sheet, I knew it wasn't Blair. Something -- the shape? The smell? Something wasn't right, wasn't him. I rolled my head back, feeling my neck and shoulder muscles relax. I wiped my nose, sniffing, and swallowed. "Not him," I whispered to Simon.

"You sure, Jim? You didn't get a good look."

"It isn't him, Simon. I know this." My voice was louder and firmer now.

Simon nodded again, and the coroner threw the sheet back over the pathetic figure. Probably a friend of Blair's, I thought absently; someone he'd loaned the car to. No, wait. How would he have the wallet? "Shit. He's probably been mugged. How else could this guy have his wallet. Oh my god, Simon -- "

But Simon was faster than I and was already calling Rhonda, asking her to start checking the hospitals. Then he tugged at me again and I followed him to his car.

And he was in his office, bopping to earth music, grooving on tribal rhythms while he graded essays, his door open, sharing the music with his neighbors. His head popped up and he smiled with genuine pleasure when Simon and I showed up. My throat closed up again at seeing him, at seeing *him* and not that blistered abused corpse in the middle of a busy street. I wanted to punish him for frightening me. I wanted to kiss him for not being dead.

Instead, I stood back and let Simon explain, watched Sandburg whip his hand back to a pocket and come up empty, waited while he emptied out his backpack and found no wallet. "Jesus. I've been robbed," he said faintly, and then sat down again, hard. He looked up at me. "And whoever took my wallet and my car is dead?" I nodded, and he paled even further.

"Sandburg," Simon barked in his don't-be-foolish voice, "This isn't your fault."

"I know, Simon. It's just -- man. What if I'd loaned the Volvo to someone? What if it'd been me? Oh, Jesus." He swayed in his chair, and I finally stepped out from behind Simon and went to him, putting my arms around him.

"You're okay, Blair. It's okay." He nodded, but closed his eyes. He was sweating lightly, even though he was chilled. A bit of shock. I grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and pulled it around his shoulders, then poured him a cup of coffee, sweetening it the way he liked. "Come on, buddy. Take a sip." He put a shaking hand out and took the cup; I held on, to make sure he didn't spill any.

"Come on, Blair," Simon finally said. "I'm taking you and Jim home. Jim, I'll have one of the uniforms drive your truck home. Take care of him." And we bundled Sandburg out of his office.

I never let go of him.

****

After our first kiss, Sandburg laughed his ass off at me. "Smooth move, big guy," he gasped, laughing still. I was tempted to smack him, but settled for running my hand over his denim-covered ass again and again, feeling the wonderful muscular curve of it, how it fit my hand so beautifully. I stroked him firmly, letting my fingers slide between his thighs. He stopped laughing and started paying attention, pushing into my hand, rocking against me. He lay sprawled across my chest, then rolled onto his stomach; I could feel his hard-on against my thigh, and felt my own grow. He moaned.

When he began humping my leg, I pulled him up to try for another kiss. This time he took me seriously and wrapped his legs around me, so he sat facing me and the back of the couch. He rocked up and back; my hips lifted of their own accord, trying to join with him. His muscular thighs gripped me firmly and he wound his arms around me, tilting his head to one side to find a better position for this kiss.

He moaned again, into my mouth; I pulled him tightly down as I pushed up and he came, gasping, oh oh oh ohhhh Jesus, and then collapsed against my chest. I kissed his face a hundred times, delighted to have this privilege, this right. I'd earned it, I'd earned *him*, and I wanted him to acknowledge that, acknowledge me, acknowledge us.

He sniffed deeply and kissed my throat. "Mmmm, that was pretty good for a first try. Don't you think we need some practice, though?"

"Oh, yeah. Lots of practice. All the time." I kissed him again, then pulled back to look into his eyes.

"Don't laugh at me, Blair. This is too important to me. Either be with me or don't, but don't laugh."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You surprised me, is all, and I was embarrassed. I'll never laugh at you again. Jim, I." He kissed me, as familiar as if we'd been together a lifetime. "Oh, Jim."

"I know." And I did. He loved me. He couldn't say it just yet, not right now, not with our pants wet and the couch getting stained, but I still knew it. I kissed his cheek, his chin, his nose, his mouth, and then his mouth again. "This is it, Blair. You got it?"

"No fucking around. Literally or figuratively." I had to smile at his phrasing, but he got it. "You either."

"Yeah. Me neither." I twisted my head and kissed his earrings, sucking them into my mouth, then moving to put my tongue in his ear, which turned out to be an effective maneuver, one I needed to remember. He groaned and began grinding against me again, rubbing his hands up my chest and down my arms, kneading my muscles.

"Oh, fuck, this feels good," he whispered, and then I didn't let him talk again for a long, long time.

"I'm serious," I said much later, after we were showered and dressed and drinking hot tea with cinnamon toast. "No fucking around on me."

He looked at me a little puzzled. "I heard you, Jim. I understand. But what do you need from me to reassure you?"

I thought. "At least fifty years."

He smiled, brilliantly and lovingly. "Just fifty?" he teased, waving a slice of cinnamon toast so the sugar and cinnamon flew onto the table and floor. "I can do better than that." I nodded approvingly, but caught his hand and brought the toast to my mouth. I choked when he said, "What's my punishment if I fail?"

My heart seemed to falter and I had trouble swallowing. Before I could speak, though, he saw my distress. "Oh, man, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it was just a joke, a stupid stupid joke. I'll never fail you, I promise, Jim." He stared up at me, concern glowing from him. "I love you, Jim," he whispered. "I'm just trying to protect myself."

I took his hand again and brought it to my mouth again, this time to kiss. "I know, sweetheart. Just. I'm not ready for teasing just yet. Give me those fifty years, okay? Just love me long enough that I can believe my good luck." He nodded, then got up from his chair and walked around the table to me, putting his arms around my shoulders, and kissing my temple.

"I love you. I loved you from the moment I saw you on that examining table. I will never hurt you. My punishment will be to die of shame if I ever do." He kissed my shoulder and I leaned my head against his. "Notice I don't ask you any questions. That's because I know the answers."

I answered his questions anyway. "I love you, Blair. I will never hurt you intentionally. And I'll spend the rest of my life regretting the times I have."

He straightened up and leaned against the table, watching me. He smiled very slightly. "Was that an exchange of vows?"

I blushed, instantly remembering the embarrassment of Carolyn's and my wedding. But hell. Different times, different mores. I shrugged, then tapped his nose with a sugared finger, leaving a reddish-brown smudge of cinnamon. "Is that what you want?"

It was his turn to blush, and he leaned down so I could kiss the cinnamon-sugar away. "Maybe," he breathed into my mouth. "It was a promise, though. Cross my heart."

"Cross my heart," I repeated, and kissed him again.


End file.
